


finding the way

by BlackJacketsandPens



Series: emily kaldwin and the ghost of the tower [5]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, MEGA SPOILERS, also cuteness because obviously, death of the outsider spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:05:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: Finding the way home isn't as easy as it looks when you haven't had a home in a long, long time -- but it's not quite as hard as it seems, either.Major Death of the Outsider (nonlethal ending) spoilers!!!





	finding the way

**Author's Note:**

> SHHHHH I cried over DotO and immediately went "well, now I have to write one more Tower Ghost story". Because now he needs to go home. (And don't you tell me they wouldn't immediately adopt their former Void-god into the family, because you know they would).
> 
> Maybe I'll write more about human Outsider getting used to living at the Tower with the gang...hm.
> 
> (also his name is 100% my headcanon and I love it, fight me)

“What will you do now?”

He winces slightly -- her voice is loud to him, despite knowing the words are being spoken in a normal tone; _everything_ is loud, though, out in the world -- and looks down, gaze trailing across the city beneath them and towards the distant horizon, where sky meets the sea. “I think...I’ll go to Dunwall,” he says, voice quiet.

Yes, Dunwall; he doesn’t have to look at her face to know she knows why -- _they’re_ in Dunwall, after all. The two people who -- against all odds -- he’s grown attached to. The two people they both knew that proved that people could find it in them to choose well.

“Not surprising,” she says, looking almost amused. “Any idea how you plan to get there? Or have you thought about that?”

He blinks. “...oh,” he says after a moment, hands fluttering absently to pick at his sleeves as he thinks; even now he can’t quite stop them from moving. He always needs to be in motion, can’t stay still. And he has even more reason to, now, doesn’t he? This is all rather overwhelming -- the woman beside him did the impossible, and now he’s here. Standing on solid ground, standing in the _sun_ , for the first time in four thousand years. He had never thought it would happen, or that it ever could. But he’s part of the world again -- he can _live_ again.

It makes him feel very small, he has to admit. Only hours ago, he had been a god. He had seen it all, seen _everything_ \-- every choice, every turn of events, every possibility -- and now he was mortal. Now all he saw was what was in front of him, all he knew was the privacy of his own thoughts. It was at once a weight off his shoulders and...disorienting.

Not to mention how... _vibrant_ everything was in reality. In the Void, it was all dulled; colors, sound, light, scent and touch -- muffled and deadened in his state of eternal dreaming. Out here, it was so much more alive, which was...it was hard to process it all. It was welcome, of course, after so long in silence and darkness, but the brightness stung his eyes and the noise, even up here just above the city itself, felt fit to deafen him. He could only imagine what the city itself would be like: the chaos of civilization was something he knew well, had seen so much of, but until now he’d never been part of it.

“Thought so,” Billie says, amused. “You’ve got no idea how to go about human business, do you?” The question was obviously rhetorical, and he couldn’t help the pout.

“Well, I know what I’d have to do in _theory_ ,” he mutters, irritated. Get passage on a ship and travel there the long way -- he isn’t naive or ignorant; just because he’s no longer a god doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember the knowledge he’d gained over his tenure. It was just...a lot to do.

_“In theory,”_ she repeats, still genuinely amused, and he’s all at once insulted and somewhat pleased. She isn’t afraid of him -- that’s rare. And he feels as if...no one will be afraid, anymore. No one will know who he is, who he was. He’s just a boy again, a face in a crowd. Unremarkable. The thought feels...wonderful.

“I suppose I’ll have to get you started,” Billie says, startling him. “Can’t leave you stranded after all this.” She turns and offers him her good hand. “I doubt you want to stay _here_ much longer anyway.”

He turns back to look at the mountains -- at the catacombs of cultists (who have lost their god; he wonders what they’ll do now, though he doesn’t care at all) and the eldritch fragments of those who had sacrificed him (who have lost their god, too, the one they made, and he cares about that even _less_ ), his prison for thousands of years -- and smiles thinly. “No,” he says. “I don’t.”

He turns back and takes her hand, warm under the smooth leather of her glove, and they head back down the peaks of Shindaerey, the woman who had once been Maegan Foster, and the boy who had once been a god.

* * *

He’d been right -- once they arrived in Karnaca, everything had hit him at once, hard enough that he’d nearly fallen to his knees, and Billie pulled him into an abandoned apartment building to help him sit down. He didn’t quite register her watching him, too busy folded in on himself with hands like nervous hummingbirds, unsure whether to cover his ears, his eyes, or whatever else.

“What’s--” She began, but stopped and softened her voice once she finally noticed him flinch at the noise. “Too much?” She asked instead.

He nodded helplessly, both overwhelmed and overwhelmed by the fact that he _was_. Everything was so much compared to the unchanging expanse of the Void -- all the light, the cacophony of sounds (even the quiet sound of footsteps seemed to echo like explosions), the smells of dirt and blood and spices and who even knew what else lay in the city’s gutters...and it only made him more aware of everything else, even the small things; the beat of his own heart, the scratch of his clothing on his skin, the lingering taste of copper in his mouth and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

That this was _normal_ for most people...he couldn’t imagine. A drawback to having been so distant, was it…? He didn’t quite notice Billie had sat next to him until a warm hand was on his shoulder. “If it gets to you this much, this might take a while,” she noted, keeping her voice blessedly low. “Not to say don’t take your time, though.”

Another nod from him, and there was silence after that. Well, relatively -- the chaos of the outside bled through the walls and even that was enough to drive him mad, he thought; how would he cope with living like this, if simply walking down a street sent him fleeing to somewhere to escape it all? He would have to get used to it, he knew that, especially if he expected to go to the even more crowded and chaotic Dunwall, but -- that seemed miles away right now, and in and of itself that was a frightening concept. To have to take the time to grow used to things, to learn things...time had never been an issue before, four thousand years bleeding into each other until he simply knew how long it had been from the dates on calendars as he watched time pass. Now he was part of the passage of time like everyone else, and he had only his small, mortal window into the world to process it.

He felt very, very small again, a pebble amid a quarry or a lone fish in the vast ocean. When was the last time he had felt like this, so...helpless? Not since before the knife had touched his throat, and he only remembered those times in fragments. But he _hated_ that feeling -- he always had. To feel small and helpless...that was why he had given his mark, so that the people who received it didn’t have to be that way, because he remembered what it was like. And now here it is again...it was funny, perhaps, in a bitter sort of way.

Though the weight of a hand on his shoulder registered again, and he looked up at Billie -- who offered him a crooked smile -- and he...relaxed a fraction. Well, there was one thing different this time, perhaps: he wasn’t _alone_.

* * *

A week later, a freighter bound for Gristol had one more passenger aboard it -- a scrawny young man with wide grey eyes the color of the ocean during a storm. He was insatiably curious, the captain had to admit, hovering around the crewmen and asking questions about anything. Well, when he wasn’t deeply seasick; an affliction that sent him to cling to the railing, ghost-pale and wobbly, but still stubborn enough to stay on the deck to watch the sea.

For his part, the seasickness was unexpected, but unsurprising -- he actually found it funny when he was feeling better. For all that he had been associated with the ocean, he had never sailed before, even as a human. There was a touch of irony in the fact that his first time aboard a ship, he was laid low by motion sickness.

Though at least the sounds of the ship in motion and the chaos of the sailors was tolerable now. It had taken him a week to be able to grow used to the constant noise of humanity, but now it was almost a comfort. The constant noise meant that it was never silent -- and silence had been one of the most terrible things about the Void. Naught but eerie silence and the soft song of whales, in that vast and empty place. Among humans, he was never overcome by that same lack of noise: humans hated silence, he’d found, and until now he’d never experienced the result of that. Now that he had, though, he understood it completely.

Not to mention Billie wasn’t with him anymore -- she’d declined to go near Dunwall (not that he blamed her, with all that the place held for her) and instead had boarded a ship to Tyvia, to seek out Sokolov’s company now that she too had closure. He understood that.

He didn’t doubt he’d be forever grateful to her -- for doing the impossible, for forgiving him and freeing him, and for actually lingering to help him when she really hadn’t needed to. It was strangely reassuring, as it always was, to know that there were still some people who could change, who could choose the path of less violence. Someone like him, this time, who had never had a choice as a child -- though unlike him, she’d grown older, stained her hands -- and yet in the end chose forgiveness over death.

Humanity was certainly odd, wasn’t it?

The crew of the ship he was on, _The Dancing Gull_ , had been kind to him too -- Billie had given him coin for passage, and they didn’t seem to mind when he was well enough to ask questions. He knew how running a ship worked, of course; he knew a lot of things from his years watching the world, but to watch and to experience are very different. He couldn’t help but be curious, to really know some of the things he’d only seen before. The men were glad to oblige, mostly, one even showing him a few sailor’s knots. It was more than a little strange to be among people who accepted his presence and spoke to him as an equal -- but he enjoyed it. He’d always been a little fond of sailors, as they were a superstitious lot, but not the sort of believers that had always left a bad taste in his mouth. They were far more casual about it, treating bonecharms and a little magic as part of the job and part of life on the ocean, not some sort of grand religion.

They didn’t question his strangeness, or the whalebone pendant he wore around his neck -- though part of that was that he kept it well-hidden most of the time anyway. It was one last gift from Billie, his mark carved into a fragment of bone; his _name,_ to wear always, the thing that had been taken from him there around his neck so he would never lose it again. It had been a surprise when she handed it to him as they parted, a sort of gesture that wasn’t openly sentimental, but meant something all the same. It was appreciated.

It would take a week or so to get to Dunwall, the captain had said, perhaps more if the weather’s unfriendly -- but soon enough the skyline appeared in the distance, and he could see Dunwall Tower’s silhouette. Seeing it was...something eased in his chest, some odd bit of anxiety he hadn’t realized was there, and it was strange. But at the same time...maybe it made sense? Seeing the tower meant that he was that much closer to Corvo, to Emily -- to people he knew, and who knew him. Who seemed to actually _like_ him, even when he was a god.

He was almost there, he thought. He still wasn’t sure what he would do when he arrived, but -- he would do _something_. It shouldn’t be hard, even with his newfound humanity...right?

* * *

Corvo was at the desk in his room that night, reading some reports Jameson and some of his contacts in Karnaca had sent over. Some of them were quite interesting, in a worrying sort of manner: this Eyeless cult, mainly. In a manner of months since Emily had burned through Delilah’s conspiracy, this cult of fanatic Void-worshippers had slithered into place -- even in official positions and popular members of high society -- and were startlingly influential. His contacts hadn’t found names, but had found quite a bit of worrying information. But two weeks ago, it had all disappeared. The highest members exposed, an entire fighting ring torn down, and the remainder of the cult in fragments. All his contacts could get out of any of them was nonsense, and an inexplicable mass suicide had quickly followed. And the culprit? No one knew anything about them, either.

(He knew enough to guess, though, but he didn’t have all the pieces.)

The more worrying thing was that his mark and Emily’s both had...not faded, really; it was still there and their magic still worked, but there was something more tenuous about their connection to the void. Something more...fragile? More wild. It was hard to put his finger on just what was different, but he was certain something was.

Lots of questions and no answers, he mused. And so little time to find them, given the city was still being rebuilt from what Delilah and her coven had done to it, and both Empress and Lord Protector (and Royal Spymaster) had their hands full.

A faint skittering noise distracted him and he looked down at a pull on his pants, picking the small, skinny albino rat up from where it had been trying to climb him. “You’re not one of mine,” he noted, amused -- his own little collection of the rodents (of which he had at least a dozen; he seemed to attract them thanks to his abilities and he’d ended up giving in and keeping a few as ‘pets’) all had a bit of black string around their necks so he could tell them apart. This one didn’t, but it was holding a scrap of rolled paper in its mouth, which it deposited into his hand.

_Bird-friend,_ it said, in that broken little way all rats seemed to speak. _Have gift for bird-friend, message from another friend. Says important._

“Important, is it?” He asked, setting the little creature on his desk, where it promptly made itself comfortable in his empty coffee mug. “And from a friend…?” Who could that be? He knew he was unique in his ability to speak to the rats -- Emily couldn’t, and the only other person he thought could had been old Granny Rags, and she was long dead. But someone else apparently could, and could send a rat to him with a message.

He unrolled the paper, smoothing it out and taking note of both the fact that it seemed to be ripped from the bottom of a bit of newspaper, and that the handwriting was... _bad_. Legible, but still a childish scrawl. Nonetheless, the mark drawn on the note -- _the Mark_ \-- told him enough, and the rest of the message sent some sort of chill down his spine.

_My dear Corvo and Emily. Much has happened very quickly, and there is a lot to tell you. I can no longer speak to you the usual way, so this must do. Meet me where it began, and where Emily met her ghost. As soon as you can, preferably._

It seemed to be signed with the Mark and only the Mark, but the words of the note...the implications were all there, and without another word he stood and made his way to Emily’s quarters. If the sender of this note was who he thought, then...there really was a great deal to talk about, not least of which how in all the Void it was _possible_.

Where it began...the bit about Emily’s ghost made only some sense to him, but the rest of it -- he knew where it began, if it was who he thought, and it was only appropriate, he thought. One of the few places in the city the three of them would all be familiar with.

* * *

It was only a few hours later when Emily and Corvo reached The Hound’s Pit, though Emily had wanted to move faster. She probably could have, too, if it weren’t for their powers acting strange of late -- and if this was who they both thought then that was easily explained.

How it had happened she didn’t know -- and hoped he’d tell her -- but she _knew_ it was him. Her ghost...only two people in the world knew what that meant, and one of them until recently had been a god. Until recently...why else would he have needed to send a message the hard way instead of speaking to them through dreams? It was hard to believe, but that was the only answer. How, though, she wondered. _How?_

She was the first one into her old tower room, Corvo several steps behind her and most likely amused at her rush. “Outsider?” She asked as soon as she pushed through the door. “Is it you?”

“You came quickly.” She stopped when she heard the voice, startled -- he sounded so much quieter, so much younger, it was strange to hear -- and then he stepped into the moonlight pouring through the window and she gasped, both in surprise and the realization that she’d been right. “I’m grateful -- it’s _cold_ out here.”

It _was_ her ghost -- the Outsider. And he was unquestionably human, his eyes no longer endless pits of ink and shadow but...normal, a very pale gray ringed with the shadows of tiredness. He looked more human, too, oddly -- his skin wasn’t that of a drowned man’s, blue-white of death, and he seemed smaller, somehow. Less comfortable in his own skin, less confident. Small and mortal, no longer a god.

She was across the room in moments, tangling him up in a hug and almost awed to feel the beat of a heart against her chest. “It is you!” She said, amazed. “How is this-- you’re human! How did this happen?”

She paused, then, stepping back and letting him right himself, the former god looking more than a little startled, his hair a bit mussed and expression bewildered. “Sorry,” she said, laughing and sheepish. “I didn’t mean to startle you. That was...I came on a little strong, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine,” he reassured her, an awkward, uncertain smile settling onto his face. “I...should have expected your enthusiasm.” He fidgeted slightly, his usual habit of remaining in motion seeming more nervous than unconscious now. “It’s good to see you, Emily.”

“You too,” she said. “I’ve been worried the past few weeks, especially since our marks have been acting strangely. And now you’re human? What happened?”

“A great deal,” he admitted, moving to perch on one of the old chairs that still sat in the tower’s room; it was funny to see him walk there instead of simply transverse, she had to admit. Still studying him in the light as he gathered his thoughts, there were more and more little things she noticed that she’d never noticed before -- maybe because they hadn’t even been there before now. The calluses on his hands, nails bitten to the quick; his nose was crooked, she noted, and there was a pale scar across his neck that had certainly not been there the last time she’d seen him. It was like the Void had erased every physical quirk or flaw and now that he was mortal they’d all returned. “But the short, simple version? An old friend of yours was asked to kill me, but she decided not to, and this is the result of that.”

Emily blinked. “An old friend….Mae-- Billie?” She asked, correcting herself. That was the only person she could possibly imagine getting involved in something like that. “Who in the Void would ask her to kill _you?_ ”

“Daud,” Corvo said from right behind her, and Emily nearly jumped in surprise. She elbowed him gently for that and he swatted her arm, but continued. “It was Daud, wasn’t it.”

He just nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “Old and dying, I suppose he was searching for absolution in his last days, and thought that killing me would soothe his guilt.” Emily wasn’t sure what would, personally, but she certainly doubted killing the Outsider was it. “I can’t blame him. But either way, Billie Lurk felt differently, and in the end...here I am.”

“Here you are,” Corvo said fondly, stepping around Emily to stand beside the Outsider. “How did she do it?”

There was silence for a moment. “...my name,” he said finally. “She found my name and returned it to me.” His expression turned wry. “It turns out it was very close to me the whole time, the name that was stolen so long ago.” He reached out to Corvo’s covered hand, putting his hand on top of it. “My mark.”

“The mark is...your name?” Emily asked, and was met with a nod. “Then...I’m glad to have it,” she said with a smile. “That way it won’t disappear again, right?”

A moment of startled silence, and then he nodded. “I suppose so,” he replied. “I certainly don’t intend to lose it again.”

Corvo put his other hand on top of the Outsider’s, somewhat surprised at how small it was like this, how warm. “We’ll make sure that won’t happen,” he added, and after a moment bent to pull the Outsider into a hug of his own. Again, the Outsider seemed genuinely surprised at the contact, frozen and wide-eyed, but relaxed into it after a moment. Emily didn’t blame him -- Corvo gave the best hugs.

“Now, the three of us should be getting back to the tower,” Corvo said after a moment. “It’s late.”

Emily almost laughed at the Outsider’s expression. “...what?” He asked.

“The _three_ of us,” she repeated. “We aren’t leaving you here. Did you really think--” His face answered that. “We would never! You’re...sort of family, really. And we owe you, you know that. Of _course_ we’re taking you back home.”

“Oh,” the Outsider said quietly, and then he smiled, still uncertain and awkward, but it was the most human expression she’d ever seen on him. “Thank you.”

Emily beamed at him, putting an arm around his shoulders as he stood. “We’ll have to go the longer way, unless you don’t mind going with Corvo -- he can carry someone while he transverses. I can, too, but what with how I do it…” Both she and the Outsider laughed.

There was a pause as the three of them headed outside, Emily having dropped her arm to take his hand, and Corvo turned to him. “What _is_ your name?” He asked. “If you’d like to tell us.”

The Outsider looked shocked, as if he hadn’t thought about telling anyone until that moment. “I--” He began, shaking his head. “Of course.” They couldn’t just keep calling him the Outsider, and since he had a name now...the more people who knew it, the harder it would be to lose again.

“My name is...my name is Emrys,” he said after a moment, saying it almost hesitantly. “Emrys.”

“Emrys,” Emily repeated. “Well...alright, then, Emrys,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
